


Waking

by another_Hero



Series: Ace Debbie Not Lou [2]
Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: F/F, Gen, queerplatonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 09:23:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16092743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/another_Hero/pseuds/another_Hero
Summary: Originally published as chapter 3 of A Lifetime of Something, so you might have read it already if you're committed.This series is in a universe where Debbie and Lou do not have the same kind of feelings for each other and...they're figuring it out





	Waking

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to those of you who commented when this was posted as a chapter of a different fic! Your comments were nice and I liked them

The first thing Debbie registered on waking up was that she had slept through the entire night. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she didn’t really  _get_  sharing a bed, but she’d dutifully begun spending most of her nights in Lou’s, begging off only twice when she was especially tired and never meeting any complaint. But apparently she was getting used to it: the second thing she registered was the sound of a drawer opening, which meant she’d slept even later than Lou had.

(The first night she’d appeared in Lou’s room, teeth brushed and hair braided and in a matching pajama shirt and shorts, Lou had looked up surprised for a long moment, long enough that Debbie almost worried this hadn’t actually been what Lou had asked for. But then Lou had slid aside and, as Debbie pulled back the sheets and climbed onto the mattress, had rolled away from her, reaching back, so that Debbie, a little too nervous to argue that Lou couldn’t just unilaterally declare herself the little spoon, had spent a while with her face in the back of Lou’s neck and her arm across Lou’s chest, trying not to over-analyze Lou’s irregular breathing because Lou could feel her breaths, too, and maybe her heartbeat, and she wanted to seem calm and certain. When she was ready to sleep, she had kissed Lou’s shoulder—it was probably fine; she needed Lou to know she wasn't leaving—and rolled onto her back, leaving one ankle hooked under Lou’s. She’d woken up with Lou’s hand on her belly, and she’d woken up again with Lou’s lower leg pressed against hers, and she’d woken up with the covers pulled half off of her, and she’d woken up finally with Lou’s hand resting gently on her arm, Lou still somewhere short of awake.)

It didn’t surprise Debbie that Lou was a wild sleeper, but she was relieved this morning to feel so rested. She pushed herself up on an elbow. “Good morning,” she said.

“You know,” Lou said from the dresser, “not being into sex is keeping you from a better one.” There was no weight or anger behind it; they had always built things into their reality by building them into their banter.

“Let me know if you’re going to need somebody else in this bed tomorrow morning,” she replied.

“Yeah,” said Lou, who was facing into a drawer, “yeah, can you get me a redhead, five-three and 180, six fingers on her left hand, no chin dimple, and a daddy kink?” Lou rattled the whole thing off like she’d prepared the joke, and Debbie didn’t know whether to feel grateful or guilty that every trait was the opposite of her, but mostly, she had been outplayed.

Apparently it was too early to belly laugh; Debbie settled for a robust chuckle. “I’m not a fucking Burger King,” she said.

Lou threw a shirt at her. Debbie shrugged, took off the shirt she’d worn to bed, put on the shirt from Lou, and decided it fit well enough. It wasn’t exactly her style—it was a baseball shirt, a little more casual and with a little more color than most of Debbie’s wardrobe—but she sure as hell wasn’t going to have a shirt thrown at her and not wear it. When she didn’t say anything, Lou looked over at her mid-dress and snorted. Debbie picked up her pajama shirt and got up to find a pair of pants. She leaned briefly against Lou on her way out of the room. They were still trying out affectionate gestures, and Debbie thought this might be kind of a weird one, but Lou accepted it with a hand soft on her back and lips on her head, a half-conscious sweetness Debbie had never expected and still wasn’t certain how to plan for. They’d both done a lot of blushing in the last week and a half. At times the combined effort of acting like herself-with-Lou and not laughing at what wasn’t a joke had practically given her a stomachache; they were both fumbling here to ask for what they wanted without asking for too much.

(“So if I want to have sex, like, sometime before I die,” Lou had said from the couch on the first day after the kitchen.

Debbie had grabbed a box of cookies from the cupboard because it was easier to look casual while holding a box of cookies and sat on Lou’s feet. “Then you should,” she said.

“That’s it? It’s fine?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I think so, like she hadn’t been ready for this question for 24 hours. Lou probably had been too. “Maybe not with people I know? At least not without mentioning it first?”

“Poor Tammy,” Lou had said, slumping back dramatically, which made Debbie realize she must have been sitting up anxious before. “Destined never to know real satisfaction.”

Debbie snorted, but also: “You never slept with Tammy?”

“Until last night I thought  _you_  had slept with Tammy. Wait, have you?”

“No. God, no. Ew. Lou! I  _like_  Tammy.”

“I’ll sleep here, though,” Lou had said. “If I do.”

“You don’t have to.” Once she had said it, she looked up, not to reassure Lou but to be sure she hadn’t hurt her. She bit off half a cookie.

“I will.”

To hide her face, Debbie had slid her knees under her and lain down with her head on Lou’s belly. She knew perfectly the expression of amusement Lou would be making, but a hand had come up into her hair anyway, and another hand had reached into the box of cookies. Debbie hadn’t professed her love again right then because she wasn’t sure how often was ridiculous, because lying basically on top of Lou was out there enough, and because it was too soft there to speak. She did, however, feel immensely glad that she had braved Lou’s bed the night before.)

Now Lou was calling through their open doors, “What do you want for breakfast?”

Debbie managed to find a pair of black jeans. “Waffles,” she called back as she pulled them on. She didn’t bother with a bra, though she knew she would regret it the moment she left the warehouse. She slid her calves into a pair of boots. “I’m going to need to borrow a leather jacket.”

“You could just steal one. Not one of mine. Or  _buy_  one.”

“I don’t need to  _own_  a leather jacket,” Debbie said, walking back towards Lou, and then from the doorway, at normal volume, “It’s not like I’m ever wearing this shirt again.”

Lou, half-dressed, gave her the kind of up-down look that Lou would smack anyone else for giving her, the kind that made Debbie’s belly clench wishing Lou could have the chance to act on it. “You might be wearing it again.”

(On maybe the fifth night, once the light was out, Debbie had asked, “Is this okay?”

“Is what okay?” Lou had asked, in genuine confusion, and Debbie had heard what was implied: That’s a sex question; we aren’t  _doing_  anything.

“I just, you know,” Debbie had said, and even in the dark it was uncomfortable just then to face Lou, “I got exactly what I wanted, and…”

“You don’t have to feel  _sorry_  for me.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Lou had rubbed her hands, which were between them, over Debbie’s forearms, but she hadn’t answered quickly; Debbie had wished the room was actually dark enough to hide her face. “This is good,” she’d said. “It’s really so good. And just a tiny bit terrible.”

Debbie had nodded, had wished to tuck Lou’s head under her chin but stayed facing her straight-on. She hadn’t apologized; there had been time when she wanted to want to kiss Lou so badly she almost disregarded herself and all the minutes after, but she couldn’t apologize for the ways she and Lou were misaligned; it felt too much like taking the blame. “Yeah,” she’d said instead. And then, miraculously, Lou had tucked her own head under Debbie’s chin, and Debbie had set a hand on her hair and stayed there though her body screamed to move until Lou had rolled away to sleep.)

 “Just give me the jacket.” Lou looked through five before, through some calculation unknown to Debbie, choosing one to hand over. “I thought I’d text Amita, see if she wants to have lunch since she’s in town.” The jacket was soft enough to make Debbie wonder whether maybe she actually should get some leather of her own.

They walked to get waffles. Lou slung an arm easily over Debbie’s shoulders, and Debbie, after a moment, put one around her waist.

“You picking my pocket?”

“No way. I know better than that.”

“Bullshit.”

“I do,” Debbie insisted. “I’m  _well_  aware that you wouldn’t keep anything worth stealing in your most accessible pocket.”

“You overestimate me.”

“I never have yet,” Debbie said.

“Good lord.”

They paid for the breakfast because the restaurant was in a nearby neighborhood and Debbie liked to go there. The waffles or the syrupy fruit on them or the whipped cream on the fruit had made her sleepy, and when she got back and handed Lou her jacket and looked at the stairs, she laughed.

“What?” said Lou, behind her.

“I don’t know which bed to nap in.”

“Whichever one you want. Both. The couch.”

“It doesn’t matter to you?”

Lou clapped her hands down on Debbie’s shoulders. “Oh, honey, my ego is too busy for that.” She came closer, rotated her hands so she was holding Debbie’s shoulders to her, her arms hanging down Debbie’s arms. It felt natural to Debbie; she wondered whether they had stood like this before. “But someone should remind you," Lou said in her ear, "that you hate napping.”

“I do,” said Debbie, leaning back and luxuriating in it, “but the alternative is staying awake.”

“Well,” said Lou, and she let go, cuing her partner to stand on her feet, “I’m sure we can manage.” She walked into the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Sure,” Debbie said. “Coffee. Thanks.”


End file.
